He replaced his phone and attacked his meal, noting that there were only a handful of customers in the restaurant and no one remotely interested in him. Why should there be? But he recalled the motorbike which he was almost certain had been stalking him yesterday. Could he have been mistaken? Maybe, because there had been no sign of anyone following him today. But perhaps that was because the motorbike rider had been Adam Killbeck and he had been out fishing all day. The build was right from the glimpses he’d had of the rider, who had been tall and lean. But Marvik thought Adam more broad-shouldered than the man he’d seen. And he’d witnessed that brief look of surprise on Adam’s features this morning when he had alighted from his tender on the shore before suspicion had set in. So maybe Adam hadn’t known he’d arrived at Swanage by boat.
It was dark and drizzling by the time Marvik left the restaurant and made his way through the almost deserted streets. As he turned into the road that led parallel to the bay and eventually to the lifeboat station, he considered the image of Bradley Pulford that Matthew Killbeck had drawn for him earlier that day and the emotions he’d exhibited when speaking of Pulford: resentment, anger, hatred even. Maybe Shaun was right and the Killbecks had killed him, if not in 1990 then more recently, in January.
Through his thoughts he caught the sound of a motorbike and one whose engine he instantly recognized. He dashed a glance over his shoulder and his heart quickened. Yes, there it was cruising slowly some distance behind him, and he was certain it was the same one that had stalked him yesterday. Astride it was a darkly clad figure, the face hidden by the visor, but Marvik could swear it was the same rider. He picked up his pace. The road was deserted both ahead and behind. He swiftly calculated that he had another three hundred yards before the entrance to the lifeboat station and the shore. Glancing back, the motorbike was keeping pace with him but still holding back. Marvik knew why. The rider was judging it perfectly – there would be a moment when no one would witness what he was about to do and that moment would soon be here. It would come when he turned down towards the lifeboat and he’d be alone in the dark close to the shore.
Adrenaline surged through his veins but instead of instinctively breaking into a run he forced himself to maintain the same walking pace. Although he was fast and fit, he wasn’t as fast as that motorbike and he calculated that it was better to preserve as much energy as he could in case he needed it on the shore. One hundred, two hundred – he mentally counted down until … He sprinted. The roar of the motorbike burst through the night. It was deafening. In a few seconds it would be on top of him. If he glanced back he’d be a dead man. He still might be, he thought, running hard, his feet striking the tarmac, his heart pounding, his blood pumping. To acknowledge the wound in his leg would be death. To think of anything other than reaching the shore, darkness and safety would be fatal. He had a second – maybe two if he was lucky. Two seconds between life and death. It wasn’t much but it was all he had.
He swung into the road, running hard, past the empty units, his goal the small stretch of shingle shore where his tender and the Killbecks’ fishing boat lay. He jumped down from the small ledge and rolled on to the ground as the rush of air brushed past him. The bike screeched to a halt. Marvik leapt up. Would the rider risk coming on to the stones? But no, the bike swung round, the rider revved up and was gone with a deep roar.
Marvik let out a long exhalation of breath. He’d thought the day had been full of blanks and getting nowhere. He’d been wrong.
FOUR
Sunday
He woke with a heavy head as though he had a hangover, but it was the combination of tension, lack of sleep and the legacy of his head injury sustained in combat – leaving the right-hand side of his face scarred – which was the cause. Coffee and painkillers would cure it, plus a blast of damp sea air.
He took his coffee up on deck, zipped open the canvas awning and breathed in deeply. He was alone except for the motor cruiser moored up to his left. He’d heard its tender return last night just after nine thirty. Two men had alighted from it and climbed on board. Marvik had watched their boat until the lights had gone out, then had remained tense and prepared in case he had a nocturnal visit from them or anyone else. But all was quiet except for the rain and the wind. The rain had stopped just after three a.m. The wind had also eased to leave a relatively calm, cold morning with only a slight ripple on the grey sea.
His thoughts returned to the motorbike which had tried to run him down, just as they had throughout the night. He acknowledged the professionalism of the rider and again considered who it might be. Matthew Killbeck would have told Adam about his visit so Adam Killbeck was a possibility, despite the fact that Marvik had thought the motorbike rider had been leaner than the fisherman, and so far Adam was the only possibility, because apart from Irene Templeton and her impatient husband no one else knew he’d been asking after Bradley Pulford. And somehow he couldn’t see either Irene or her husband on a motorbike trying to run him down or engaging someone with the skills to do so. Marvik didn’t see Jensen having the skill to ride a powerful motorbike or the money to buy one either, and Matthew Killbeck was too old.
Marvik knew he hadn’t been followed to Steepleridge or back. His phone might have been hacked, though, giving away his conversation with Strathen and his location, and that was a possibility he’d have to mention to Strathen.
He again cast his mind back to the people in the Italian restaurant, as he’d done throughout the night. There had been a couple in their thirties who seemed more interested in one another than him; two women in their late fifties who had spent their entire time looking at photographs on each other’s mobile phones and gushing loudly in between shovelling lasagne into their mouths; a man in his mid-seventies and two men in their early forties, all of whom had come off boats judging by their clothes. There was no one who seemed intent on killing him, or at the least hospitalizing him. And none of them had followed him from the restaurant. In fact, no one had. But the motorbike rider could have seen him return to the bay earlier, before he’d headed back into town to the restaurant. Then all he had to do was wait for him to return.
He swallowed his coffee and called Strathen, knowing he’d be awake. He’d probably been working most of the night, delving into databases and hacking into systems to try and unearth some information on Pulford that could take them forward. He quickly brought Strathen up to speed on the attempt on his life and asked if it was possible that his phone could have been hacked and his location tracked from it even though he’d disabled the location application. The answer was as Marvik had expected.
‘It’s possible, especially if you’ve browsed the Internet.’
He had, to look up the inscription on Bradley Pulford’s grave.
‘It would need someone with considerable expertise,’ Strathen added when Marvik told him that.
‘Then that rules out Adam Killbeck.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I don’t, you’re right. For all I know he or Jensen could be a whiz at that sort of thing.’
‘I don’t suppose you got the registration number of the bike?’
‘It wasn’t top of my list as I was concentrating on staying alive,’ Marvik replied caustically.
‘Pity.’
Marvik smiled. ‘I’ll try to do better next time.’ And he was certain there would be one, but whether the attack would come in the same manner he didn’t know.
‘Perhaps you should move the boat,’ Strathen suggested.
‘And disappoint Easy Rider?’
‘There is that.’
‘Any joy with the Seacombes?’
‘Yes, or rather no, depending on the way you look at it. Alice died in 1953 and John in 1956, so unless they left some money and instructions in their wills for their adoptive son to be buried with an elaborate headstone, or it was paid for out of what Bradley Pulford left, it means someone else was fond enough of him to cough up for it.’
‘I’ll return to the
church. Irene Templeton, the church warden, is bound to be there, it being Sunday. I’ll see if I can get anything more from her about that inscription without her husband hassling her.’
‘Then say a prayer for me.’
‘I thought you were beyond saving.’
‘Probably.’
‘If I can’t get anything further from Mrs Templeton I’ll ask the funeral directors on Monday for details of local stone masons. They might have kept records of who paid for Bradley’s headstone.’
He rang off and was about to descend into the cabin when his attention was caught by the sight of a woman on the shore who was studying the Killbecks’ fishing boat. She looked up and out to sea, running a hand through her long wavy hair and then glanced at her watch. Perhaps she had an assignation with Adam Killbeck. Maybe she just wanted to buy some fish or go fishing, or perhaps she was a tourist looking around, but there was something about her manner that made him curious, and if she was acquainted with the Killbecks then perhaps she could tell him more about them.
He grabbed his rucksack – which was always readily prepared with water, rations, Ordnance Survey map, compass and wet-weather leggings – locked up, climbed into the tender and headed for the shore. She looked up at the sound of his engine but made no attempt to leave. As he jumped out and pulled the small boat on to the shingle shore, she smiled a nervous greeting at him.
‘Do you know if this fishing boat belongs to the Killbecks?’ she asked a little hesitantly.
‘I believe so. Why?’ he enquired politely, thinking with a flash of disappointment that she couldn’t know them while curious as to her reasons for asking.
‘I’ve been told they take people out with them occasionally.’
‘You want to go fishing?’ he asked with some surprise.
Her fair skin flushed and her blue-grey eyes dropped for a second before coming back to rest on his face and away again. He could see she was uneasy. He was a stranger. He looked threatening because of his scars.
‘I want to survey the coast beyond St Alban’s Head,’ she explained, ‘and short of chartering a boat I thought this might be the next best thing.’
It was a lie. He saw that immediately and his interest deepened.
‘Who told you about the Killbecks?’ he asked casually.
She flushed again and said, ‘The guest-house proprietor where I’m staying.’
Another lie.
‘Doesn’t she know where they live?’
‘No, she just mentioned it. I guess I could wait until they show up.’
‘They might not, it being Sunday. They’d probably have been here by now.’
‘Yes, I suppose they would,’ she answered somewhat dejectedly.
‘I’d offer to take you on my boat but I have to see a couple of people today.’
‘No, that’s fine,’ she said hastily, confirming his thought that her reason for wanting to see the Killbecks was a lie. So what was the real reason? Only one way to find out.
‘I’m Art Marvik,’ he said, hoping she’d reciprocate with an introduction. She made to smile politely but the smile froze on her lips as she studied him with baffled interest.
‘Marvik? Not any relation to Doctor Eerika Marvik and Professor Dan Coulter?’ she asked doubtfully.
It was his turn to be surprised. How did she know of his parents? But as quickly as he framed the question the answer came – she’d mentioned surveying the coast beyond St Alban’s Head and there were a number of shipwrecks in that location, so she could either be a treasure-seeker or a marine archaeologist. He thought the latter. Did he deny it? He often did if he had the misfortune to meet someone in the same or similar profession as his parents. But admitting his parentage this time might be one way of gaining her confidence and extracting more from her about her interest in the Killbecks.
‘I’m their son,’ he said.
Her eyes widened. ‘My God. But that’s amazing. I never thought … How – why, I mean … why are you here?’ she stammered. ‘Is it anything to do with maritime archaeology?’
‘No. But I’m guessing that must be your interest or profession.’
‘The latter. I’m a marine archaeologist.’
As he’d thought. ‘Is that why you want to survey the shore from the sea, because you’re here to research a wreck?’
There was a fraction’s pause. He could see she was deciding whether or not to continue the lie. It seemed she couldn’t. She looked sheepish for a moment. ‘No. I’m sorry about that but I didn’t know who you were.’
‘And knowing that makes a difference?’
‘Of course.’ She smiled.
He thought her very trusting. How did she know that the son of Eerika Marvik and Dan Coulter wasn’t a complete psychopath? Or that he was even telling the truth.
She said, ‘I’m Sarah Redburn and I’m here because my father, Oscar, went missing from this area in 1979. I think he might have known a man called Bradley Pulford who was cremated here on Friday. I was hoping his relatives, the Killbecks, might be able to throw some light on what happened to my father.’
Marvik just about hid his surprise. But perhaps he shouldn’t have been so stunned by her sudden appearance here and now. Crowder had made no mention of anyone called Redburn but that didn’t mean he didn’t know of her or her father, Oscar. Marvik didn’t think Pulford’s death had been publicly announced and neither had there been any press coverage on his identity being revealed or the link to the Killbecks. But perhaps Crowder had informed her or she’d discovered the information via another source – one he was very keen to learn about. He didn’t usually speak about his parents but if it made her open up to him about her father’s connection with Pulford then he’d sacrifice his feelings.
‘Breakfast?’ he suggested.
She looked pleased at the invitation. ‘Only if you have time.’
He had lots of it, now.
FIVE
They filled the short walk to the café with talk of the town and the weather, each aware that the sense of intimacy the café would provide would serve them better. Marvik ordered breakfast – coffee and a bacon sandwich for them both – and chose a table in the window affording him a good view of the wide sandy bay where a few boats were anchored. To his right he could see the pier arching out to the east, affording shelter for his boat and the other boat anchored there. They had the place to themselves.
She shrugged out of her sailing jacket to reveal a grey long-sleeved jumper with wide pink stripes across it. On closer scrutiny he could see the fatigue on her face and there was an air of innocence about her that bordered on vulnerability. Perhaps she spent too much time studying wrecks of the past and not enough time living and interacting with people of the day to be wise to them. Or perhaps he was mistaken and underneath that shy manner was a very shrewd and calculating woman.
‘I’m sorry about your parents,’ she said, pushing a slender hand through her long hair.
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘The length of time someone’s been gone doesn’t always make it easier.’
He eyed her keenly. That was said with feeling. Their coffee arrived, preventing him from asking her about her father, and once the waitress had left them with the parting shot that the bacon sandwiches were on their way, Sarah continued before he had a chance to speak.
‘My area of research is similar to Doctor Marvik’s,’ she said a little timidly, as though afraid he would accuse her of being presumptuous for trespassing on such hallowed a reputation as his mother’s. ‘I’m particularly interested in the social implications of seafaring – for example how navigation, boat technology and the maritime environment have all affected the development of communities. How people living in coastal areas have been influenced by the sea both socially and commercially.’ Her eyes darted towards the bay and back to rest on him. ‘I’ve worked in the Solent, the Mediterranean and the Indian Ocean. And, of course, the brilliant partnership between your parents, with Professor Coulte
r being an expert in oceanography and ocean turbulence and Doctor Marvik in submerged landscapes, made their work so valuable.’ She blushed. ‘Sorry, I’m gushing. But they were amazing,’ she continued earnestly, hugging her mug of coffee with both hands. He noted there were no rings on her fingers or signs that there had been any. Her nails were short and bitten.
Then she looked solemn and her brow furrowed. ‘They were killed in the Strait of Malacca but nobody seems to know why they were there. Their death was a great loss to the profession. Oh, I’m sorry, that sounded callous. I didn’t mean … Of course, it was a terrible tragedy for you.’
‘Like I said, it was a long time ago.’ But her words and her enthusiasm had conjured up memories of his parents. He’d been shocked when he’d been told by his headmaster of their death but not grief-stricken. How could he be when he had rarely seen them for six years and had felt a sense of abandonment? He’d tried to feel and, at least, show some signs of sorrow in the ensuing days – it was expected – but there had been only a sense of bitterness which he had channelled into action as soon as he could by joining the Marines.
He recalled their accident. An underwater earthquake had killed them while diving. They’d been below alone with only one dive operator on the boat – Frederick Davington – who had alerted the authorities. Their bodies had been recovered two days later. Davington had maintained they hadn’t been engaged on any research project and there was no submerged wreck or notes to contradict that. Marvik had met up with Davington once after his parents’ funeral, which had proved a futile meeting and had been at his instigation, perhaps looking for some glimmer of hope that his parents had spoken of him, only they hadn’t. He’d had no idea what he had expected from it and even now only vaguely recalled Davington, who had looked drawn and ill and had died six weeks afterwards from a severe asthma attack. It had been years since Marvik had thought of the diving accident and years since he’d spoken of his parents except to the shrink, Langton, who he’d seen after his head injury, and then he’d said little. He’d had no need to discuss them with his colleagues in the Marines. No one would have been interested anyway. Occasionally he’d get correspondence from fans of his parents, academics and professionals like Sarah, but his solicitor was instructed to deal with those.
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